


The Truth is Rarely Pure and Never Simple

by pilindiel



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Falling In Love, Fluff, JeanMarco Gift Exchange, Jock!Marco, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Rivals to Lovers, Theater AU, Though Marco doesn't really see them as rivals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21945709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilindiel/pseuds/pilindiel
Summary: The Importance of Being Earnest the paper reads once Marco gets close enough to see, Official Cast List.Marco takes a deep breath.  Swallows down the tightness in his throat.  Oscar Wilde’s theatrical opus is charming, funny, and notoriously difficult to get right.  One misstep in acting or direction and the entire framework falls apart.  Perhaps most unnerving is the fact that Marco knows there are only nine roles.  Every single actor must be a perfect fit, lest the show be a terrible bore...Marco focuses on one name in particular, though.Jean Kirschstein.
Relationships: Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29
Collections: JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2019





	The Truth is Rarely Pure and Never Simple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Songbird321](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songbird321/gifts).



The last vestiges of the late-summer afternoon sun are dipping behind Jinae U’s castle-like campus when Marco’s world shifts. 

The cast list for fall’s show is posted outside the theatre’s front door and there’s at least twenty students shoving past to see the pale, eight and a half by eleven sheet. Marco catches at least several tearful looks and melancholy sighs as he weasels his way through the crowd.

**_The Importance of Being Earnest_ ** the paper reads once Marco gets close enough to see,  **_Official Cast List._ **

Marco takes a deep breath. Swallows down the tightness in his throat. Oscar Wilde’s theatrical opus is charming, funny, and notoriously difficult to get right. One misstep in acting or direction and the entire framework falls apart. Perhaps most unnerving is the fact that Marco knows there are only nine roles. Every single actor must be a perfect fit, lest the show be a terrible bore.

But Marco had put on his A-game during auditions. He blew everyone away with his rendition of Harold Hill’s monologue from  **_The Music Man_ ** to the point he even got Levi Ackerman, their notoriously unflappable and perfectionist theatre director, to crack a smile.

It was a good sign, and Marco held that close to his chest even as he and Sasha threw back shots of peppermint Schnapps afterwards in her apartment to unwind.

He holds close to that lingering, stale tang of peppermint now as his eyes scan down the page.

_ John Worthing, J.P. - Reiner Braun _

_ John Worthing, J.P. Understudy - Floch Forster _

_ Algernon Moncrieff - Marco Bodt _

_ Algernon Moncrieff Understudy - Jean Kirschestein _

_ Lane, Manservant - Jean Kirschstein _

_ Lady Bracknell - Hitch Dreyse _

_ Hon. Gwendolen Fairfax - Sasha Braus _

_ Merriman, Butler - Bertholt Hoover _

_ Rev. Canon Chausable, D.D. - Connie Springer _

_ Cecily Cardew - Historia Reiss _

_ Miss Prism, Governess - Hannah Diamant _

Marco exhales, relief flowing through his veins.

In all honesty, Marco had hoped for John, not Algernon—John has a subdued, charming presence compared to Algernon’s exuberance and quick wit—but still, he’s excited to stretch his acting muscles and step out of his comfort zone.

Playing off of Sasha will be a blast, too. She and Marco have practically been fused at the hip since freshman year improv and having her play his cousin would be seamless.

Marco focuses on one name in particular, though.

_ Jean Kirschstein _ .

For years, he and Jean have traded off lead roles at Jinae University. They’re both passionate, if not a little competitive, and although the audition process is always cutthroat, they’ve never actually been in the same show before. Marco has a hockey scholarship that typically occupies his time through winter and Jean has debate in the spring that keeps them from vying for the same roles. They’re both in their senior year now and Marco had been certain they would continue as parallel lines, running together forever and never intersecting.

But when Marco’s broken collarbone last season failed to heal properly, his coach had ordered him to take it easy, freeing up his time for the fall semester production.

The throng of nervous bodies behind him parts and Marco looks to make his escape, but he freezes when there’s a bump to his shoulder followed by the sharp scent of citrus cologne.

Jean Kirschstein is a little shorter than him, more wiry too, but he’s slender and agile in a way that makes Marco’s heart skip. His hair is flaxen, golden against the backdrop of the setting sun, and Marco’s mouth feels suddenly dry.

He’s definitely seen Jean before, (Marco makes a habit of seeing every show the university puts on if he can make it,) but it’s entirely different seeing him in person, up close.  There’s a severity to his brow, an intensity that is commanding, terrifying, and intriguing all at once. But there is also a depth to his hazel eyes that has Marco captured for a moment, and he wonders exactly how many layers this young man has.

Jean must feel eyes on him because he turns suddenly and Marco stiffens, sucking in a breath.

“You got a problem?” Jean snaps.

Marco’s smile is awkward, lopsided from being caught staring, and he attempts to play it off with a short laugh.

“I uh…” he rubs the back of his neck and gestures awkwardly to the list, “I’m Marco.”

Jean stares for a moment and Marco watches as Jean’s slow recognition turns from surprise to righteous fury.

“You’re shitting me,” Jean hisses.

_Oh_ .

Marco forces his smile into something more genuine.

“I... I look forward to working with you?” he offers.

Jean looks at Marco like he’s grown a second head.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” Jean starts, “But you can take that sunshine-y attitude and _shove it right up your_ _ass_.”

Marco blinks, bristling. “Excuse me?”

“You may think you’re hot shit now,” Jean sneers, “But just remember: meatheads like you don’t belong on that stage.”

It stings like it’s meant to and Marco draws himself up to his full height. He’s definitely been called worse - being on a hockey team will do that - but he takes pride in his work.

But before Marco can retort, there’s a shout that makes his blood run cold.

“Kirschstein!” The voice cuts through the air and Jean swallows his next words, gritting his teeth. Everyone even tangentially related to their theatre department knows that tone and the gaggle of students jump, standing at attention. 

Levi is a severe looking man—short in stature and shorter in temper—and he raises an unimpressed eyebrow. Jean averts his glare to the ground.

“My office,” he directs, “ _ Now. _ ”

Jean shoves past Marco, bumping his shoulder again, but Marco remains silent as he watches him go. There’s an ache that settles in Marco’s chest, dull but present, and it heightens the moment he catches Jean’s expression. It’s still twisted, anger etched in his brow, but there’s a sadness to it now. A vulnerability and a tinge of shame that crosses those sharp features. Marco doesn’t know why, but it tugs at something deep in his bones.

Marco wants to reach out despite himself, but he’s frozen, that tight,strange feeling settling down into his stomach.

Jean ducks his head and goes into Levi’s office, not sparing Marco a second glance.

This is going to be a very weird semester.

* * *

Marco Bodt, Jean thinks with mild disdain, is a model student. He's a senior on the Dean’s list, goalie on Jinae University’s hockey team, and has the looks of a leading man from the golden age of Hollywood, wrapped up in a Captain America-shaped package.

Everyone  _ loves _ him. It's hard not to. He's charming, kind, and easy-going, with a smile that could put even the most nervous person at ease. Even on the first day of rehearsal when he raced in five minutes before warm-ups, wearing a skin-tight black and white striped t-shirt and tan cargo shorts, he still managed to look absolutely put-together and perfect, freckles dancing across the bridge of his nose.

Jean hates him.

He prickles with irritation as the summer sheen of sweat that would look disgusting on a normal person just seems to add to Marco Bodt’s unearthly glow. With a shift of his shoulders, Jean glowers and stubbornly sinks further into his seat when Marco slides into a chair across from him.

Jean's whole body is pulsing with anger just at the sight of him, full of unspoken, biting words and insults that he just barely manages to hold back as Marco deigns to give him a chipper, polite “Hello!”

He hopes his terse “tch” and eye roll shows Marco exactly what Jean thinks of his greeting.

It gets the desired effect, which is Marco leaving him the hell alone for the majority of the table read of Act I. A pretty impressive feat, since Jean and Marco start off the show.

Lucky for Marco, Jean is a professional. He sits up straight, enunciates his lines perfectly and succinctly and ignores the way Marco’s eyes keep flicking up at him.

Levi had admonished Jean for his haughty attitude and harshness and there is a guilt that churns a little inside him, but Jean just squares himself. He doesn’t give a shit about what Marco Bodt thinks. He doesn’t give a shit about what anyone thinks.

It’s worked well for him so far, and Jean is nothing if not a creature of habit.

When they finally pause and take a ten minute break, Jean feels the pricking of a headache coming on and storms off towards the rehearsal halls in search of sustenance.

The vending machines aren’t as glamorous as one would think. Despite Levi’s efforts to constantly improve the quality of their shows and equipment, it’s an uphill battle. Jinae University doesn’t care much for the arts, and the classrooms connected to the theatre look like they haven’t been updated since the early 80’s.

Neither have any of the vending machines. Jean does his best not to get anything out of them if he can help it - the last time he tried to buy a Twinkie it was practically liquid and he swore never to touch those damn machines again.

But...he needs the caffeine. He’s got a paper to write after this table-read and he needs the extra energy boost. Even if the soda is sixty years old at this point, he’s hoping the acid has kept it relatively safe to drink.

It’s only when he gets to the dusty old thing - buttons faded with use and only stocking knock-off soda brands - that he realizes he left his wallet at home. Jean groans, cursing his luck.

“Do’ya need something?”

Jean jumps, startled, and turns to see the absolute bane of his existence. Marco offers him a small smile and gestures to the machine. “I could spot you.”

“And owe  _ you _ ?” Jean replies snottily before he can stop himself, “No fucking thanks.”

Marco sighs, and he must want to get into it because he leans against the wall and blocks Jean from his only means of escape.

Jean tenses, still feels the prickling of annoyance under his skin from earlier, and he stares at the ground, quietly fuming.

“Look, I get that I stole your role from you,” Marco says, crossing his arms, “And I’m sorry. But I’m not going to let you be a dick just because you’re pissed you didn’t get exactly what you wanted.”

That shame comes back with a vengeance, blazing across Jean’s face and coiling around his throat. 

Marco’s not wrong - Jean’s definitely been a dick.

“It’s not just that,” Jean snaps, though it’s quiet. Subdued. He can feel Marco’s eyes on him, cautious, but there’s a shift in his stance and his voice comes out gentler. More open.

“Then what is it?” he asks.

Jean chews the inside of his cheek, brow furrowing as his ears begin to burn with embarrassment.

Might as well come out with it.

“Just...this show is really important to me,” Jean admits quietly. He ducks his head, sheepish, but one glance at Marco shows him he’s listening, and Jean lets his guard down just a little. 

“It was the first show I ever saw that made me realize how dynamic live theatre could be?” He says in a rush, smile becoming just the tiniest bit smaller. “I actually became kind of obsessed with it growing up. Watched all the movies and recordings. Listened to the audiobooks. I even have a bootleg recording of the West End revival.”

He’s rambling now, flustered by the realization and he snaps his mouth shut. But when he dares to look up at Marco, he’s not met with disgust or judgement. Just a sincere smile and an honest determination in the copper of his irises that has Jean’s stomach doing cartwheels.

“I promise,” Marco says, “I will do this show, and the role, justice.”

Jean’s heartbeat skips, overcome, and he does what he always does when things get too serious - joke it off.

“You better,” Jean replies, “Cause you know I’m going to be there to swoop in when you inevitably screw it all up.”

Marco beams just as the vending machine wheezes and frees a bottle of  **_Dr. Bob_ ** with a unceremonious  _ ka-chunk. _

Marco holds it out, a peace offering, and Jean’s eyes sweep across the beautiful tapestry of freckles adorning his cheeks. “For you.”

“Oh no,” Jean says firmly, shaking his head, “I make it a habit to not owe anyone anything. We’re _sharing_ this bottle of discount Dr. Pepper.”

“You sure?” Marco asks, teasing smile twitching at his lips, “You aren’t worried you’ll get infected with my meathead germs?”

He waggles his eyebrows and Jean huffs out chuckle, cheeks burning pleasantly.

“Shut up,” he replies, shoving Marco’s shoulder. It gets Marco to laugh though - a deep, rich sound - and Jean ducks his head as he smiles.

Okay, so maybe Jean doesn’t  _ totally  _ hate him.

* * *

The weeks go by, and Marco notices how things get a little easier. Jean is more open, less hostile. He teases Marco for his posture  _ You’re literally built like Chris Evans why do you stand like that?  _ And his enunciation  _ Is that really how you’re saying ‘Cecily’? It’s leviOSA, not leviosAH, got it? _ but it’s been fun. Really fun, actually.

Marco’s not sure exactly when the shift happened, but he’s eternally grateful for it. Jean’s attitude has improved towards the whole cast, in fact - he’s less aggressive, more relaxed, and even made a joke so terrible Reiner had smacked Marco’s shoulder and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“You’re a bad influence on him,” Reiner teased.

It only made Marco preen through the heat that flushed his skin. 

“Jean’s always been that punny,” Marco promises, “I just don’t think he ever felt like he was allowed to be.”

As a friend, Jean is amazing, which is something Marco never thought he'd be able to say. And as an understudy? Jean is invaluable. He brings a whole new insight to Algernon's character and Marco finds himself spending hours texting Jean late into the night about theories and ideas on Algernon’s history. On how Algy never knew his father (Marco can relate), how he uses humor and wit to hide his own disenchantment with the world (which reminds Marco so fiercely of Jean), and how their characters’ histories tangle together in the web of Oscar Wilde’s overwhelming charm.

It feels so natural then, for Marco to invite Jean over to help him run lines.

Marco has never been good at remembering prose, and more than once he would ad-lib or create a facsimile of what his lines were if he couldn’t recall the specific turn of phrase. Normally, Marco and their stage manager would come to a compromise as long as he got the general emotion across with  _ most  _ of the words in the right order.

But this is  _ Oscar Wilde _ . His words are  _ precious _ , delightful in their turn of phrase, and any misstep would misconstrue his meaning or lose its effect. And with Algernon essentially being Oscar’s mouthpiece for what might just be the funniest lines in the play, well.

Marco refuses to screw it up.

He promises himself that Algernon being Jean’s favorite character has nothing to do with his determination.

It’s only natural that he should enlist his understudy to help him run lines.

It’s roughly 7:15 pm (no, Marco is not counting the minutes, shut up) when Jean knocks on the front door of his apartment.

Marco throws the door open and has to take in a breath. He's dressed painfully casually by most people's standards - a black, old band t-shirt and a ripped pair of acid wash jeans - but the look on him is anything but casual. It's almost sinful… Marco swallow the thick lump that's built in his throat.

“Sup?” Jean asks, pushing his way past Marco into the room to deposit his bag on the hand-me-down couch. He smirks over his shoulder and the things it does to Marco’s heart should be criminal. He can't just look at him like that, it's illegal. 

“Just uh…” Marco clears his throat, trying to remember all those manners his mother taught him, “Do you want anything? Coffee or water or something?”

Jean shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good,” he replies easily, flopping down onto the couch’s pleather cushions. “So,” Jean asks, looking entirely too much at home. It tugs at something in Marco’s chest. “What scene did you want to run?”

Marco fumbles, flipping through the notes in his already worn script book. “I uh,” he stumbles, “It’s in act two. The ending to the first Cecily and Algernon scene.”

Jean hums, flicking through the pages in his own script. “The one in the garden?”

Marco nods. “Yeah, I can’t get the wording right for some reason.”

Jean makes a non-committal sound, eyes scanning over the pages, then nods. “Alright, I gotcha.”

He stands then, and grabs Marco’s bicep, positioning him to the other side of the beer-stained coffee table. The touch is commanding and it holds Marco's attention and focus far more acutely than it probably should. Marco follows his direction, letting Jean manhandle him into place, and blinks.

“Don’t you need the book?” Marco asks, “To keep me on track?”

Jean chuckles, shaking his head. “Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ sound. He puts his fingers to his temple and taps. “Got it all up here.” 

Marco must look impressed because that shy, awkward pride comes over Jean again and he looks away, ruffling his fingers through his hair. 

“Whatever,” Jean grouses, embarrassed, “What line do you want to start at?” Marco doesn’t understand why his nerves are buzzing so incessantly beneath his skin in this moment, why his whole body feels hot under Jean’s calculating but excited gaze, or why he has the terrible urge to copy Jean’s movement and run his fingers through Jean’s shaggy blond hair.

He swallows the urge down. “Let’s uh...Let’s start from my entrance.”

Jean smirks. “You got it.”

Jean plays a surprisingly good Cecily and Marco is delighted at how easily they fall into the roles. That’s one of the things Marco genuinely loves - theatre can be performed anywhere at any time, even at 7:30 at night in his dingy university-provided apartment.

“ _ Well, _ ” Marco says, laying on his English accent as he leans into Jean’s space, “ _ Would you mind my reforming myself this afternoon? _ ”

Jean hums, tapping his chin as he begins to walk around the table, “ _ It is rather Quixotic of you, _ ” he muses, “ _ But I think you should try. _ ”

**“** _ I will, _ ” Marco promises, placing a hand over his chest as he feigns astonishment, “ _ I feel better already. _ "

This is one of Marco’s favorite scenes in the show, if he’s being honest with himself. When Algernon instantly falls for Cecily, who is just as ridiculous and over-the-top as he is. Algernon’s cynicism melts away as their conversation goes on, wooed by Cecily’s sharp wit as well as her beauty.

Marco doesn’t necessarily buy into the idea of love at first sight, but it’s fun to play a bumbling fool in love. For some reason, it just feels natural.

**“** _ Might I have a buttonhole first? _ ” Marco asks, “ _ I never have any appetite unless I have a buttonhole first. _ ”

**“** _ A Marechal Niel? _ ” Jean replies easily, pretending to grab something off the coffee table. He mimes inspecting a display of flowers, standing on his tiptoes and stretching his arms, and Marco gets a flash of soft, pale skin as Jean’s shirt rides up from the movement.

**“** No!” Marco says suddenly. Jean raises an eyebrow, concerned, but Marco clears his throat and continues. “ _ I’d sooner have a pink rose. _ ”

Jean takes it in stride, picking up where he left off as he clips an imaginary flower from its vine. “ _ Why? _ ”

Marco approaches then, just like the blocking on stage, but there’s something more intimate about it now. Perhaps it's the grimy lighting, or Marco’s exhaustion from a long day of classes. Or perhaps it’s because this is Jean, and there’s something tugging Marco incessantly closer, pulling a voice out of him that he’s not used to.

It’s not an  _ unwelcome _ feeling. Not unwelcome at all. 

“ _ Because you are like a pink rose, Cecily, _ ” Marco murmurs.

Jean takes a step towards him, putting on Cecily’s airy attitude as he continues the lines. “ _ I don’t think it can be right for you to talk to me like that, _ ” he says quietly, reaching out as he mimes placing a flower on Marco’s non-existent button, “ _ Miss Prism never says such things to me. _ ”

“ _ Then Miss Prism is a short-sighted old lady, _ ” Marco breathes. Jean’s fingers linger, gentle and cautious as he places his hands on Marco’s chest, and Marco becomes far too aware of their position.

They’re close -  _ too _ close - so close Marco catches a whiff of Jean’s intoxicating citrus cologne and makes the fatal mistake of glancing at Jean’s face.

His heart lurches.

He looks down, into Jean’s tawny eyes, and the world melts away. Jean’s pupils are blown wide, lips parted slightly and Marco traces the curve on the bridge of Jean’s nose, the light dust of pink to his cheeks. There’s a warmth to his eyes that Marco wishes he could latch onto, pull in close and protect and covet, and just for a moment, Marco indulges. He presses just a bit closer, into the strong presence of Jean against his chest, and places a hand on Jean’s hip.

The air between them turns hot. Liquefies.

Marco can’t remember how to form words, brain a fog of heat and sudden, rapt interest in bridging that miniscule space between their lips.

“I…” Jean darts his tongue out, wetting chapped lips and Marco’s whole world pinpoints and tracks the movement. His traitorous brain immediately starts thinking of the many other things he’d like to see Jean do with that tongue and he tries his hardest to shake free from the image.

This...This is too much.

“I forgot my line,” Marco croaks, words strangled as they force their way out of his throat. It breaks whatever had been building between them in a swift instant and Jean hastily looks away.

With a chuckle that sounds more like a cough, delicate and nervous, Jean takes a step back as he pats Marco’s chest. Marco feels the loss of their proximity immediately.

“Sorry,” Jean says, distractedly, “I uh...I left my script by my bag.” He turns, cheeks still that lovely shade of pink, and shuffles back over to the couch. There’s a tense moment of dawdling, Jean fiddling with his script book as Marco stands motionless, watching.

Jean clears his throat. “I should, um…” his gaze flicks nervously to Marco before he shoves the script into his bag and slings it over his shoulder. “It’s uh...Late.”

“Yeah,” Marco replies. His voice sounds throaty, strange, heat still pulsing through him as he watches Jean’s every movement. There’s a fear coiling around his throat too, something sickly and terrible that stabs the air from his lungs.

Jean turns to leave but Marco surges forward, fingers curling loosely around Jean’s wrist. Startled, Jean stills and meets his stare and Marco jumps back like he’s been shocked.

“Sorry!” Marco says hurriedly, “I’ll just…” He clears his throat. Offers Jean a smile. “See you at rehearsal tomorrow?”

It’s dumb, obvious even, but Jean gives Marco a small smile of his own. It’s reserved but so very sweet.

Marco’s whole body is ignited by it.

“Yeah,” Jean murmurs, ducking his head, “See ya tomorrow.”

The door shuts behind him and Marco is left in silence in his apartment, fingertips still tingling from where they touched Jean’s bare skin.

Marco takes a breath. Runs a hand through his hair.

“I’m  _ fucked _ .”

* * *

Opening night comes before any of them realize it. Caked in layers of make-up and his three piece suit, Jean waits by the side of the stage and hears the tell-tale chatter of audience members making their way to their seats.

Fifteen minutes to places.

_ Deep breaths. _

The murmurs of an incoming crowd usually comforts him, but tonight Jean’s whole body is buzzing under his skin, making him hyper-vigilant and fidgety. He’s never been nervous before a show, not even when he was a kid. He was Gavroche at Sina National Theatre’s production of  _ Les Miserables _ when he was eight for god sake, this is nothing.

This should be nothing. 

But Jean feels like he’s on the precipice of something, like he’s looking over the edge of a mountain top and can’t decide if he’s going to keep climbing or take the plunge, and the uncertainty heats the blood beneath his skin. 

He’s lingering backstage by the prop table, staring intently at the china tea set and tray he’s supposed to take out once the curtains rise, and he jumps when a calming hand is placed on his shoulder.

Already alight with nerves, Jean turns fully ready to reprimand anyone who dared disturb his pacing, but the words die in his throat with an embarrassed wheeze when he’s greeted by a cautious smile and a smattering of freckles.

Marco is in a smart black morning suit and burgundy smoking jacket, covering a double-breasted waistcoat laid tight across his chest to show off the broadness of his shoulders. Everything is cut to fit his body, emphasizing his waistline, and his long legs are only fully accented by how high on his waist the trousers are.

Jean’s seen the outfit before, of course - dress rehearsal yesterday was a mess of frantic glances and many averted gazes - but it is quite different having Marco mere inches away.

He’s so close Jean can smell his deodorant. It’s a clean, comforting scent with just a hint of his natural musk, and Jean’s head spins. 

“You alright?” Marco whispers, mindful of the audience on the other side of the curtain.

“Yeah,” Jean replies, too quickly. Marco reads him like a book though, finding the truth behind the golden flecks in Jean’s eyes before Jean can manage to hide it.

Jean sighs. He’s not sure he could hide anything from Marco anymore, anyway.

“It’s okay to be nervous, you know,” Marco reminds him.

“I know,” Jean mutters.

It’s so natural when Marco curls his fingers around Jean’s wrist - an endearing, gentle movement - and Jean is pulled in by it, tethered to Marco’s honest expression as he tugs him closer.

“Well,” Marco murmurs, “You wanna know what Oscar would say in this situation?”

Jean raises a brow, unimpressed, but Marco’s smile is almost as warm as the gentle way he’s entwining their fingers together and he concedes.

“What?”

“ _ The world is a stage, _ ” Marco says sagely, “ _ But the play is badly cast. _ ” 

Jean bites down on his smile, trying his best not to give Marco the satisfaction, but damn is it hard.

“Is that why you were cast instead of me?” Jean teases. Marco gasps, feigning insult, and puts a hand over his heart.

“You wound me,” he bemoans.

“You play hockey,” Jean reminds him, “You should be used to it.”

They share a companionable laugh - quiet, as to not alert the audience mere yards away - and Marco squeezes Jean’s fingers with something Jean has slowly come to realize is affection.

Jean’s chest swells with warmth and he meets Marco’s mirthful, fond stare with his own.

There’s a shift in the air between them. The space between them shrinks, turns hotter. Jean feels his name against his lips more than he hears it - a puff of Marco’s breath against his cheek.

Jean inhales and drags Marco down into his orbit.

There’s no such thing as a perfect first kiss, no matter how perfect it feels. Jean overestimates his strength and their teeth clack, Marco stumbles and presses Jean into the wall to catch himself. It startles them apart just for a moment, eyes wide and nervous, but then Marco surges forward. 

The angle shifts when Marco takes charge and kisses him again. He uses his free hand to cup Jean’s cheek covetously, and Jean melts into it. Jean wishes he could let this continue, that he could lick into Marco’s mouth and explore all the little sounds they could pull out of each other, but they unfortunately have other responsibilities. 

He pulls back with a gentle nip to Marco’s lower lip, a tease of what’s to come, and his whole body tingles from it.

It takes a moment for Jean to adjust to the low light, but then he can’t stop quiet laugh that bubbles up his chest.

Marco is bewildered, blinking owlishly, and his flush is so pronounced Jean can see it through the layers of stage makeup.

Jean smacks Marco’s arm gently, hoping to knock him out of his trance. “Kill it out there and then take me to dinner?”

Marco nods, dumbly, and Jean just beams as Levi makes the final call for places.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy JMGE, Lauren! Thanks for always being such an awesome and positive person in the fandom <3 I'm sorry I didn't go with Shakespeare or dancing like you wanted, but I hope you liked this fic and that you have a lovely holiday season !!!
> 
> If anyone is interested, you can read all of The Importance of Being Earnest online for free by the Gutenberg project [here](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/844/844-h/844-h.htm) !!
> 
> Also special shout-out to [Lindsey ](https://twitter.com/commodorecliche?lang=en) who helped me flesh out (and rewrite) a lot of the parts I didn't like. I've been in a real slump with my writing this year and it's been a real struggle getting everything to sound right. That's why it's so important to have wonderful friends like you. You're seriously a lifesaver. ;-;
> 
> HMU on [tumblr](https://pilindiel.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/pilindiel)!


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